Mikhail Bulgakov. The Fateful Eggs -
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rumbled along the roadway. The cavalry columns gave way to grey armoured
cars with the same pipes sticking out and white skulls painted on the sides
over the words "Volunteer-Chem. Poison gas".
"Let 'em have it, lads!" the crowds on the pavements shouted. "Kill the
reptiles! Save Moscow!"
Cheerful curses rippled along the ranks. Packets of cigarettes whizzed
through the lamp-lit night air, and white teeth grinned from the horses at
the crazed people. A hoarse heartrending song spread through the ranks:
...No ace, nor queen, nor jack have we, But we'll kill the reptiles
sure as can be. And blast them into eternity...
Loud bursts of cheering surged over the motley throng as the rumour
spread that out in front on horseback, wearing the same crimson helmet as
all the other horsemen, was the now grey-haired and elderly cavalry
commander who had become a legend ten years ago. The crowd howled, and their
hoorays floated up into the sky, bringing a little comfort to their
desperate hearts.
The Institute was dimly lit. The events reached it only as isolated,
confused and vague echoes. At one point some shots rang out under the neon
clock by the Manege. Some marauders who had tried to loot a flat in
Volkhonka were being shot on the spot There was little traffic in the street
here. It was all concentrated round the railway stations. In the Professor's
room, where a single lamp burned dimly casting a circle of light on the
desk, Persikov sat silently, head in hands. Streak of smoke hung around him.
The ray in the chamber had been switched off. The frogs in the terrariums
were silent, for they were already asleep. The Professor was not working or
reading. At his side, under his left elbow, lay the evening edition of
telegrams in the narrow column, which announced that Smolensk was in flames